A change of paths
by Lotrdude
Summary: A sad tale of a hero's journey from dark to light.


_my first attempt at this site. It seems kinda long, but read all of it. PLZ review._

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A CHANGE OF PATHS

He sat on his bed reflecting on horrors of the past. His mind raced from bloodbath to death-ridden bloodbath. Death was all he ever knew. He saw the faces. Their screams had haunted him. Their lives were quickly taken from them, without thought or reason, and it was all by his hand. At one time, it was pleasing to go pillaging the towns. It took no effort, for his power was too great. He would prance into the gates, almost laughing at the peasants as they wailed and ran into their homes. He took great joy in slaying hundreds, and taking their measly possessions. And the guardians of the town? What a jest, one swipe of his almighty sword would send them to the grave. Then, without looking back, he would leave humming a tune and perhaps playfully tossing a bag of money in his hand. He had lived this way for years. He had slaughtered, and burnt much of Albion. He had become the very essence of fear. At the mere sight of him the people would run, and mention of his name sent a shiver down peoples spines. Now he sat secluded in the forest, with no one daring to venture to his lair.

He reached up to his forehead and felt the bony horns that had sprouted on his brow, cultivated by pure evil. He looked into the mirror across from his bed. His eyes had begun to glow a blood red. They burnt with the fire of hell. These were the marks that proved his nature. These were the signs that showed his soul to the world. He was alone in a prison without walls, and his mind was tormented by darkness.

For now he sat calmly in his home. A dimming fire burned in the furnace, although an ungodly, ferocious storm raged outside. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and rain pelted the house like arrows. This storm was different from others. Its rage was also forged by evil. The man looked into the fire then he turned to the forest, and for no apparent reason he walked outside into the storm. He looked down the path that cut through the forest like a knife. He did not know why he was leaving, perhaps to escape his past, his prison. His head low, the man began to trudge down the trail.

The forest was as dark as the so-called "Heroes" soul. The woods had a demonic aura that shrouded its branches like a thick fog. The trees were all dead, their dark shapes casting menacing shadows when lightning crashed from the sky. The rain persisted; it drenched the man, though he did not care, for his mind still ached from memory. His thoughts raced back further to the things that had started it all, his childhood. His family: dead, the heroes guild, his training place, and home: destroyed, his mother: slaughtered before him, and finally the thing that most haunted him, his sister: killed by his own hand. All had been wiped away. He knew now what he was going to do. He would take his own life, soon.

He trudged on weeping. He had been trekking through the forest for the entire night. His clothes were torn, and his skin bled from the cuts of woodland underbrush. His thoughts a raging fury that threatened to burst. For hours the storm raged as the man wailed, tormented by unseen demons. The earth beneath him gave way. He slipped on the muddy path beneath him. He lay face down in the murk. He didn't move. He finally turned and faced the sky, the water rinsing mud and tears from his face. He lay there for another hour trying to rid his mind of the stench of blood, but it was no use, suicide was near. He rose to his knees. Voices whispered and at times shouted angrily in his head. He thought his torment would never end. He drew his sword, and gazed at the dark blade. Its hilt was blood red like the blood it had spilled throughout the ages, and the blade was black as his heart. Hellish curses were etched into the sword, speaking of untold, legendary evil. This sword had caused all of the destruction in his life, yet he had wielded it like a plaything. He lifted the blade to the sky then turned it on himself, the swords tip aimed at his heart. He shut his eyes intent on ending his suffering. For a moment his mind was at peace.

He slowly opened his eyes. Before him was one of the most beautiful thing that his weary soul had ever seen. In spite of the storm a patch of sky was clear and sun shined as brightly on this one holy place as pure gold. It was a building, a temple. It was completely white and glowed with mild warmth. Its pinnacle stretched towards heaven in a grandeur that dumfounded the man. He dropped the sword, its blade ringing in the harsh rain. He crawled towards the light, and towards hope. It almost seemed unreal to him that there was still light in the darkness, and yet it stood before him in a welcoming glory. He crawled away from the storming chaos and passed into the light. The voices stopped and the pain subsided, as he crawled with a weariness previously unknown to him, and yet he made it up the white marble steps and up to the entrance.

He stood before it shakily, and with all the courage he had pushed the door open, longing for the comfort behind it.

Peace. That is what it was, peace. The glorious alter stood before him. It seemed to call to him, delusion it may be, but still it called to him. The beautiful singing of melodious voices flowed through the room. The followers of the god, Avo, where singing with utter devotion, their bowed heads covered by their holy robes. The man took a few arduous steps, and fell to his knees. Water and blood dripped onto the floor. This was a man torn. This was the closest to death one could go without passing into it. The man looked up at the alter yearning for acceptance into this tranquility. The man reached for the bag at his side. He took out all the money he had stolen from the villages, and set it on the alter with an utmost gentleness. He fell to the floor and bowed in supreme reverence, listening to the voices of the disciples, their music soothing his head.

Suddenly he felt a rise in his spirit, which for a moment turned to pain. He flew into the air defying all reality and convulsed as a mixture of feelings and emotions shot through him. He then felt an invisible hand touch his face. It comforted him in an odd way. And as soon as it had begun the sensation stopped. He fell back to the floor. He felt excited almost to the point of being nauseous, as he spun about with an odd disorientation. He stumbled through the temple and eventually tripped through the door landing again on the muddy ground. He felt…different. His mind was at peace and an odd heaviness that once pulled him down was gone. His head so used to torment felt light and dreamy. He raised his hand to rub his head and felt something that almost made him jump. His horns, the thing that struck fear into peoples hearts, were gone. Now two blackened scars remained. He looked into a puddle nearby. The reflection showed that his once fiery eyes had become black, like charred wood after the flames had been extinguished.

He rose to his feet, astounded by what had happened. His nerves twitched in response to his enlightened feelings. He let out a sigh and turned towards the path, which led into the forest. It seemed lighter now. For the first time in four years the hero saw a sunrise. The rain had subsided to a light spring shower, and birds chirped in the distance. The man looked back in the direction of the temple and simply nodded as in response to its gift. And with that he stepped off into the forest towards new things, not knowing where the path would lead next.


End file.
